


but he is mastered now

by toomanyhometowns



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, M/M, potentially unhealthy coping mechanisms, referenced character fake-death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18917062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomanyhometowns/pseuds/toomanyhometowns
Summary: There are some things it's really hard to unhear. Turns out, your ally and kinda-step-sister-or-something suggesting you fuck her ex-boyfriend (and your not-really-brother) is one of those.Dick maybe could've guessed that.





	but he is mastered now

**Author's Note:**

> I know that [Robins 2 & 3 have shouted at Dick](https://comicnewbies.com/2015/09/24/red-hood-and-red-robins-reaction-to-nightwings-fake-death/) about faking his death, and [ Batgirl got her own shouting in](https://comicnewbies.com/2015/09/24/nightwing-reveals-his-fake-death-to-batgirl/), but my personal opinion is that there are some Big Unresolved Feelings, and what better way to deal with Big Unresolved Feelings than making rash life choices!! It is the Batman way.
> 
> The tags do not lie about this story: it is explicit and about Dick and Tim boning some feelings away. Just a heads up in case that is not a story you would like to read.
> 
> Thanks to Thought and ps for their support in this, my time of DC. You're the best.
> 
> Title is from Emily Dickinson, [ I dreaded that first robin so.](https://www.bartleby.com/113/2014.html)

_ Hey, do you have a minute? It's not urgent, I just wanted to chat about something. _

Steph:  _ is it about tim? _

Dick wrinkles his nose.  _ What gave me away? _

Steph: _ scroll up lol _

He does. Their last exchange had been about Wendy the Werewolf Stalker, which Dick is going to stop watching after this season, okay? He's not going to be tempted back, he just needs to see how stuff with the possession plot line works out.

Before that exchange was another message about Tim, and before that, a request to call, which he's guessing by the date stamp was about Tim's birthday.

Steph:  _ i'm not mad, boy wonder, i just think it's funny. hit me, what's your trouble? _

You don't get far in their line of… well, "work" implies payment. In their line of  _ hobby _ without developing the ability to recover after being caught on your back foot. Dick hits the button to call her.

"What's the sitch, Gumby?"

"That's a new one."

"You're bendy. And you're being evasive," Steph says. She sighs like Dick's disappointing her personally. She's keeping her voice low, but it sounds like "I don't want to disturb Cass" low, rather than "I'm trying to sneak up on bad guys" low. The amusement shines through regardless.

"Fair enough," he says, and searches for the phrasing he'd tried to nail down before. "Tim's mad at me," comes out instead, and so he has to correct himself. "Well, not  _ mad _ , he's not really mad anymore. He's still sharing intel," and what a family they are that  _ that's  _ a good barometer for emotions. "But I don't think he's forgiven me for last year, either."

Steph's voice goes a little flat, but keeps a sharp edge of humour. "Forgiven you for faking your own death, you mean."

Dick supposes he deserves that. "Yeah."

"Knew it," Steph says, and there's a distant beep of microwave buttons now. "It can't just be the dying part, otherwise you'd be on the horn with Jason, not me."

That's probably supposed to lighten the mood, but Dick's stomach still knots at the mention of Jason's death. "I'm just not sure what to do," he admits instead of engaging with that. "We've talked it out, he says he gets it, and I believe him, but things are still... weird."

Tim watching him train, expression unreadable, then walking away instead of stretching to join. Tim calling others for backup when he needs it. Tim not-avoiding Dick with infrequent but unsettlingly regular interaction, rationed perfectly.

"Are you surprised? You and Bruce put a  _ lot _ of work into lying to him." Steph's microwave beeps in the background.

"To minimize risk!"

Steph laughs, more bitter than usual. "Golly, where have I heard  _ that _ one before?"

"Steph--"

"Nah, nah, forget it. You came to me for advice." She takes a bite of whatever it is she's just heated up and says through it, "I got Timothy Drake to get over my faked death, ask me how!"

Dick smiles despite himself. "Thanks, Steph."

"Don't thank me yet, I don't actually know if I have anything useful to say."

"What's the first thing that comes to mind?"

Steph hums and takes another bite of food. Dick lies down crossways on his couch, head dangling close to the floor, legs up on the back. A couple of his vertebrae pop.

"Well," Steph says, chewing pensively. "This is Tim we're talking about. He's got the highest walls I can think of between what he thinks and how he feels." She doesn't sound sad about that. "Intellectually, he's probably talked himself out of any right he had to be mad at you. You were saving lives, his own angst is worth that, you're alive and he should be grateful… You know the gist. But lizard-brain-wise, all he knows is that you were there and then you  _ weren't _ , and it was under your control. And--" she cuts herself off. "Yeah, that’s basically it."

"What else were you going to say?"

"It was essentially just more of the same, but kinda mean," she says. "Still interested?"

Dick's not totally sure he's got the shape of things, yet, and Steph's take on any situation is usually valuable. "Yeah, hit me."

"Tim's an idiot," she says. "The vast majority of people he's trusted in his life have abandoned him or been killed, or sometimes exciting combinations of both. It's tragic and shit, but I think he's subconsciously kinda learned to roll with it; he's developed some sort of like… muscle memory for disappointment. Still, he keeps making this conscious decision to trust people, or to act as if he does, and he keeps getting screwed over by it." She sighs into the speaker, a burst of static. "Basically, I think his heart's learned its lesson by now, but his head hasn't. So even if his head trusts you, that doesn't necessarily mean  _ Tim _ trusts you."

Dick rolls off the couch to let the blood drain out of his head, and to distract himself from the nonsensical urge to go shout at everyone who's ever betrayed Tim, himself included. "So, he doesn't trust me," Dick says, trying out the right words, "Non-intellectually?"

There's a peal of laughter that makes him wince. "That's not exactly how I would have put it, but yeah!" Steph says. "Let's go with that."

"And to fix it, I need to prove I'm not going to disappear again."

"Well, you can't prove a negative, champ." She clicks her tongue, weighing something over before saying, "You just gotta give really good evidence for the positive."

The shape of something starts coming together in Dick's head. "Uh, evidence like…"

"What do you think?"

"I don't  _ know _ ," though increasingly he suspects that he does. "That's the whole point of this!"

"Well," Steph draws the word out. "You could always do what I did," she says, mischief creeping into her voice as she finishes, "and fuck him."

Dick blinks hard. "Come again?"

Steph laughs uproariously, then apologises to… oh god, is Cass listening in on this? "That's what he said," she wheezes. "Nah, but really, it's like… he needs proof that you're not going anywhere. Show him you're not. Show him you won't let  _ him _ ."

Dick can't think of what to say to this.

"I dunno what your chemistry is like, but the fact that you haven't hung up on me yet seems encouraging," Steph says.

That does prompt Dick to hang up, but he has good enough manners to say thanks first.

\--

There are some things it's really hard to unhear. Turns out, your ally and kinda-step-sister-or-something suggesting you fuck her ex-boyfriend (and your not-really-brother) is one of those.

Dick maybe could've guessed that.

It's particularly hard to unhear partway through a Bat-affiliate strategy session about some recent moves in Gotham crime families, when Dick notices that Tim's got one hand looped around his wrist. When he's listening particularly intently, that grip becomes a squeeze, and the constricted wrist strains to twist back and forth. The skin underneath is turning bloodless.

Dick presses his lips together and listens to Bruce enumerate the cops they suspect are on the Rossi family's payroll. Across from him, Tim's absently pulling at the skin around his wrist, pausing and pressing his middle finger to the protrusion of his ulna.

Dick knows from the Hallowe'en Tim had threatened to go as Nightwing that his hands are larger than Tim's; he'd be able to wrap one hand around Tim's wrist easily, probably catch enough of a second wrist to get a grip, but not enough to pin them together. He could pin them against another surface, maybe. He cracks his thumb, not really thinking about it.

Somebody nudges Dick's foot, and he tries not to betray his surprise as he glances over to Damian. Damian mouths, " _ What _ ," his eyes wide, darting to Tim then back to Dick.

Whatever. Dick crosses his arms and resolves to focus on Bruce, who is (currently) safe from weird Steph-based suggestions.

"Oracle sent some updates from her sources in the Cauldron," Bruce says, flicking to a new screen on his tablet. "Looks like the Irish mob has plans for whoever the new GCPD captain will be in their area."

"O'Donovan?" Dick asks. The man's been hard to pin anything to, but everyone has suspicions. 

Tim tilts his head to the side as he jots down a note, and Dick looks away from his neck.

Tim and Bruce will probably keep working after the meeting's done; Dick would normally join, but he feels the need to clear his head instead.

\--

"Hey," Dick calls out. Tim pauses for long enough that Dick is able to half-jog across the training mat to him, his body acting without consulting his brain.

They both usually take advantage of Bruce's unreal training facilities when they're at the Batcave.

"I don't wanna drive you away," Dick says with a conciliatory smile. "Here, I was just finishing up."

"Were you?" Tim asks, disbelief sketched out in the arch of his eyebrows.

"No," Dick admits. "But I didn't want to be the reason you didn't get your work-out in tonight."

Tim looks at the bench Dick had been stretching on. He's not subtle about avoiding eye contact. "Nah, it's fine," Tim says. "I'll hit the treadmill when I get home." He takes a half-step back, towards his bike, towards his home, away from Dick again for who-knows-how-long.

(Well, Tim would know how long. It's all been on his terms since--)

"Can I ask you something?"

That gets Dick the eye contact he'd been fishing for, and something settles in him.

Tim says, "Sure," and lifts his chin, expectant.

"How are we doing?"

"What?"

"You and me, we've been… off."

Tim's shoulders set unhappily. "Yeah," he says. "I know it's stupid, I'm working on it."

"Tim, this isn't your problem." Dick risks taking a couple steps closer. "It's on me. Let me make it better."

"Make  _ what _ better, Dick?" His raw voice makes something ache inside Dick's chest. "You did what you did. You can't turn back time and make me never have had to go to your funeral." After Damian's, after Bruce's, after Steph's, after...

Dick glances at the camera that's usually trained on this part of the cave, wanting to block its view of Tim, wanting to believe nobody's going to be able to see his shaking shoulders. "We should've found any other way to deal with Spyral."

"No shit," Tim says, his expression twisting viciously out of his control.

"Tim, I'm sorry," Dick says, not for the first time.

"Why are you dragging this up right now?" Tim's clearly grabbing at his composure with everything he's got. It's not as effective as it usually is.

"Letting it lie hasn't been working."

"It'll work eventually," Tim says. "Just give me another couple--" His voice cuts out with Dick's hand gripping his elbow.

"It's not  _ your thing _ to get over," Dick says. "It's both of us."

Tim studies his face in silence. Dick wills his sincerity to be as evident as possible.

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" Tim eventually asks.

"Anywhere," Dick says on a sigh.

\--

They drive separately to Tim's penthouse. Much as part of Dick wishes they were sharing a ride (it's not just Tim who doesn't trust people not to run out), he appreciates the chance to clear his head, to plan.

He doesn't use the time to plan anything, though; something in his head shies away from putting together any concrete hopes. Instead, he lets the cold whistle of autumn air scrub his head clean of thoughts.

Steph said he needed to prove he wasn't going anywhere. Fine. He just  _ won't _ .

That's enough of a plan.

\--

Dick uncaps a ginger Zesti and watches Tim stash his duffle of Red Robin gear in a secret compartment built into a kitchen cupboard.

"It's not that I'm mad at you," Tim says into the cupboard.

"It'd be okay if you were," Dick says after a second.

"I don't think it would, actually." The duffle is gone, and the false backing is in place, but Tim's not moving away. "We need to be able to work together, so I can't be mad."

Dick looks back into the fridge, an excuse to give Tim a little privacy. "Really? 'Cause Babs and Jason are  _ still _ furious, but things are basically fine with them," he says. "Do you want a Zesti, too? You've got a bunch left."

"No thanks." Tim's kitchen is large enough that he can give Dick a wide berth as he flits by him towards the den area. "And I'm not Babs or Jason. I'm not good at being mad," this last in an undertone.

The fact that Dick doesn't laugh at that speaks to his restraint these days.  _ Tim _ … Fuck. "It's not something you need to be good at," he starts, but Tim talks over him.

"And as I was saying, I'm not mad anymore! I understand! You had to do it."

Dick closes the fridge. Tim's standing by the TV, back to a wall and eyes on the exits--the choice could've been subconscious, but Dick's never sure, with Tim. He takes another sip of his ginger Zesti, letting the bubbles and the sharp flavour urge him on. "I don't believe you."

That frustration from the Cave seizes Tim's features again. "You don't get to do that!" he says, voice unsteady. "I'm feeling what I'm feeling, you can't… I'm not lying about it."

"I didn't say you were lying, just that I didn't believe you."

"I was furious, for sure, when you first came back." Tim's eyes are burning into Dick's now, like once he's made eye contact he can't let it go. His cheeks are flushed. "But I was still devastated about your death, because I never learn my lesson, Dick. People go, and I still have things to say to them, and I feel like they didn't know me, and then I tell myself I'll do better with the people I still have, but then  _ they _ go, too--" He cuts himself off, but doesn't look away. His lips press together in a painful slash, trapping something inside.

"We know you, Tim," Dick says, can't help saying it. "Hey, it's okay." 

The eye contact is broken now, Tim screwing his eyes shut and pushing the heels of his hands into them.

There are moments in a fight where Dick can see what's going to happen. Not just what'll happen next, but everything that's going to transpire in the encounter. It's not like Tim and Bruce's gift of thinking ahead, the ability to casually walk two steps ahead of their combatants and be waiting for them when they catch up. The feeling is more that everything happens at once, and Dick is right in the middle of it.

He has that feeling now. Tim's pushing his hurt away, and Dick's giving him a hug, and he's thanking Dick for talking this out, and showing him the door, and this frozen weight on their relationship pushes until it snaps.

That's unacceptable.

Dick's legs are reliable--he's in front of Tim before he finishes the thought that that's where he should be, in front of Tim and reaching for his wrists, holding on probably too tight. He doesn't pull them away from Tim's face, just hangs on through Tim's reflexive tensing, the deep breath that rips through his throat.

Neither of them says anything until Tim lowers his hands again. His eyes aren't red or teary, just blue and as sharp as ever.

Dick adjusts his grip, but doesn't let go. He'd been right, earlier: his fingers easily loop Tim's wrists.

"Don't make me go to your funeral again," Tim eventually says. It's hoarse.

_ Dick Grayson doesn't die. He just disappoints _ . "I wish I could promise that."

"Then," and the hurt on Tim's face is grabbing something inside Dick, digging its claws into the soft bits between his ribs and twisting. "Make the next time the last time."

Dick has to close his eyes, just for a second, just to run from this impossibly tiny request, from the impossibility of being able to guarantee anything. He opens them again, tries to be steady. "Can do," he promises.

As if the words had cut his strings, Tim sags forward, presses his forehead into Dick's chest. The hard weight of his skull against Dick's sternum is uncomfortable. It grounds him.

The next breath Tim pulls in is shaky, the one after that steadier, and steadier. Dick's hands get pulled up as Tim raises his own to Dick's shoulders. "Dick." The word is dropped into the space between their bodies.

"Yeah," Dick gets out before Tim surges up, a flash of desperate motion that ends with Dick's grip on his wrists broken, and Tim's lips pushing into Dick's.

The kiss is clumsy. Tim's hands are wrapping around the back of Dick's neck, tugging him into a more compliant angle. The lingering ginger from Dick's Zesti gets replaced with the taste of Tim's lips, his teeth, his tongue.

Dick's not complaining; he kisses back.

"Don't do that again," Tim hisses into the space between their mouths.

He's still not getting it, Dick thinks (in as much as he can with Tim's body pushing against him, forcing him back towards the couch). Tim's acting like this--not dying, not leaving--is something he can push Dick into giving.

It's not, but Dick's going to give it anyways.

Hands push at Dick's shoulders as a foot hooks around his ankles, and Dick has to force himself to let Tim trip him onto the couch. He bounces into the cushion, and Tim bobs on the balls of his feet, now standing over him. The light filtering in from outside paints sharp shadows over the bunching of his eyebrows, the drop of his lower lip, the jut of his clavicles as he breathes raggedly.

This isn't going to help, Dick thinks, and Tim drops down to kneel straddling his lap.

"Please." Tim muffles himself with a bite to Dick's throat, and  _ that _ , the word and the action, make Dick feel like he's going to cry for a second.

"Tim," he says, before Tim's biting his way back into his mouth. Dick kisses back, vaguely noting the places where Tim's trying to weigh him down: hands grabbing just above his elbows to push him into the couch cushions, feet tucked under himself to push down on Dick's spread knees, body balanced strategically heavy on his lap.

This isn't going to help.

Dick relaxes his arms deliberately, letting Tim's grip sink them deeper into the back of the couch. He tilts his head with the demanding push of Tim's jaw, gives in just enough for--Tim shifts his weight slightly and Dick uses the leverage from where his feet are solidly planted on the floor to lift his hips  _ up _ and to the side--

Tim spills onto the couch, bumping his head against the armrest, and Dick boxes him in with his body while Tim blinks against the sudden contact, the sudden change.

"You've gotta give me something to work with," Dick says.

It's not clear enough; Tim's given him every indication so far that he can have everything. (As long as it's on Tim's terms.)

He's looking up at Dick, a familiar puzzled wrinkle set deep into his brow. His lips are open around a breath as he tries to figure out what Dick's asking.

"Don't worry," Dick tells him, and kisses his forehead wrinkle.

"Don't tell me what to do," Tim says, and his mouth is set with a decision. "Here," and he's pulling at Dick's hair, tugging him back into kissing range.

He goes with it for a second--who wouldn't?--but his head's still halfway somewhere else. He's not being trusted, he's being steered. For all he's spent much of his life listening to someone else's guidance, he's never taken to that.

"Hey," Dick mumbles. He eases his fingers between Tim's and relaxes his grip on his hair. Freed, he pulls back far enough that Tim's chasing mouth can't catch up.

Tim opens his eyes. He looks raw, hurt, terrified.

Dick gets an idea that probably isn't going to help with that.

"Do you trust me?" he asks.

Almost immediately, Tim's hips shift: a small lift to push away Dick's pelvis, a drop and twist to create more space, as if to escape from under him. Their bodies are still pressed close enough together that Dick can feel Tim's breath seize in his chest. "Of course," he says, eyes not wavering.

Dick's heart hurts again. He stretches his limbs along Tim's. He's methodical about it, the precise fit of ankle and wrist and muscle and bone making the tremble in Tim's body stand out in undeniable Technicolour.

"Dick?" The sound is carried on an exhale. It's thin.

"Relax, Timbo," and of course that has the opposite effect. Dick adjusts to fit alongside the tension in Tim's jaw, shoulders, thighs. "I've got you." 

That does something, Dick's not entirely sure what, but. Tim's eyes close, his breath rushes out. It tickles against Dick's neck.

He repeats it, just for good measure,  _ got you _ , and is treated to the sensation of Tim shuddering underneath him. His hands gravitate to Tim's wrists once more, and this time he can fully test his hypothesis from earlier in the Cave. He can indeed gather up both of Tim's wrists, press them together, in against Tim's chest, pin them both down with the span of one hand; he can do this while turning attention back to Tim's mouth, and feeling the warmth of Tim's body under his.

The couch is wide enough that they fit, Dick slotted over Tim, but he's still very conscious of the back of the couch penning them in. They're enclosed in a warm pocket of time, when Dick can linger over Tim's lips, when Tim can moan, low and thready, tugging at his wrists and failing to free them. He's intermittently fidgeting under Dick's weight, the little brushes of movement halting nearly as soon as they start.

Dick wants to believe Tim's listening.

It's hot and close, the leather of the couch all around, and too many layers of clothes. Tim, when Dick draws back to observe his handiwork, is sweating.

"Hey," Tim says, once his eyes have focused. Air pulses, shallow, in and out of his open mouth.

Dick feels like he needs to say something out loud. He also feels like he should trust Tim to hear what he's been doing, understand it.

Against his stomach, Tim's rocking his hips up again--not to make space, this time, but a deliberate grind. Dick doesn't think he's hard yet, but he's clearly thinking about it.

"What now?" Tim asks. He looks down at where Dick's grip must surely be hurting his wrists by now; he only moves to bite his lip.

"Whatever you want," Dick says. Maybe Tim needs to hear something out loud after all. "I'm not going anywhere."

Tim's still for an unsettling second, and then yes,  _ now _ he moves, face crumpling, wrists wrenching out from between their chests, face flinching to the side. It's not enough to hide the tears springing up in his eyes. His breath suddenly rips through him in heaving sobs, the movement jarring against Dick's body, too close, more intimate than the kisses had been.

"Shit, I--I'm sorry," Dick says, and he can't tell if he means it.

Beneath him, Tim can't muster up the air it'd take to curse properly, but he mouths  _ fuck, fuck _ , eyes squeezed shut, tears licking against his lashes.

Though he doesn't have particular hard evidence to prove it, Dick suspects Tim hates crying in front of people. Nobody  _ likes _ it, of course, but Dick can still remember when Tim first started being seen as a Wayne (™), and how he'd tried his best not to laugh too loud in public, not to get angry while at Wayne Enterprises, never to tip his hand.

He's twisting further from Dick, now, practically smothering himself in the cushions. His breathing's still tattered around the edges. Dick eases his weight partially off Tim, moving closer to the outside edge of the couch but keeping a leg, an arm draped over him.

Tim doesn't flinch as Dick moves, but his hand flashes out to grab onto his shirt, the grip twisting fabric tight against him.

Dick presses a kiss to his hair because he's pretty sure anything else would break the moment. Tim's shampoo smells kind of herbal.

They stay like that, Tim hiding his face from Dick, Dick's mind scrabbling for the next step, until gradually Tim's breathing eases out, along with the death grip he has on Dick's shirt.

He half-lifts his face from the couch, wincing at the no-doubt unpleasant peel of leather from tear-damp skin. His face is pink. "I just ruined things, didn't I," Tim volunteers to Dick's chest.

"Hey, you've gotta be the one of us to ruin things  _ sometimes _ ," Dick says. "Law of large numbers or something."

That wins Dick a not-quite-smile, and Tim rolls to his side. The couch is deep, but for the two of them to lie there face-to-face they have to be close. Tim's body is a long, warm line down Dick's front. When Tim breathes in, steady now, Dick can feel the swell of his ribcage against him. It's... base.

Dick licks his lips. "So do you still want to…"

"I'm just going to run to the bathroom," Tim says, and he's clambering over Dick, a drag of limbs. "Be right back."

And he vanishes down the hallway.

Dick has time to feel his heart pounding and breathe in, and smell Tim's apartment. He doesn't come in here that often, but every time he does he's struck by something seeming familiar. It's almost like the Manor, but that's impossible; Tim's cleaning service doesn't use the same supplies as Alfred. It's probably just Dick's associations colouring his senses.

He stretches out his legs, planting his feet against the opposite armrest and pushing, flexing.

Tim had felt  _ good _ . He can still feel the ghost of his warmth tracing along the fronts of his thighs, the palms of his hands.

He hears a tap running, and closes his eyes.

"Thanks." Tim's voice comes from surprisingly close, and then he's carefully sliding back into the far side of the couch again, where Dick had pressed him before. "Just needed to check something."

His eyes look so fucking big. Dick's hand strokes up the hard curve of his trapezius; he watches Tim's eyes flutter shut, then open.

"Everything okay?" Dick asks.

"Yeah," Tim says, and: "Keep going." That's good enough for Dick.

He seals the last word in Tim's mouth with a firm kiss. One hand gets knotted in Tim's hair again, the other tugs him closer with a grip at his waist. A slight push with his hips and he's pinning Tim fully, a leg between his.

Tim's groan is muffled, but the sound still goes straight to the pit of Dick's stomach. Thank fuck for Steph, and her extremely good advice.

Sweat springs up in the small of his back, and he can feel Tim's legs shifting under him. One thigh ends up pressing hard against the outside of Dick's leg, pushing more of Dick's weight onto him. Tim opens his mouth by small degrees, inviting Dick's tongue first in a shallow flick, then getting deep, messy. The hand Dick has in Tim's hair tightens when Tim sucks, the sensation taking Dick by surprise.

"Fuck," he breathes, the sound barely a word in their shared air.

"Dick, come on, please," Tim says, eyes wide and pleading, hands gripping Dick's loose T-shirt but not pushing or pulling. He's  _ waiting _ .

Dick's not made of stone. He mouths at the trace of stubble on Tim's cheek, and slides a hand along his hipbone to press at his cock.

Tim hisses gratifyingly. He arches up against Dick, who moves easily with him; his mouth stays close to where he'd been, now pressing his teeth gently against his neck, but he posts up on his free elbow and pivots, sliding into the opening made by Tim's desperate push  _ up _ to tip him onto his side, hooking one foot around Tim's ankle to draw his leg out and back, leaving his body a long, vulnerable line against Dick's front.

Lying like this makes it painfully clear just how hard Tim's gotten. "And you haven't had the attention you need, have you?" Dick murmurs into his ear. His hand slips into Tim's sweats, holding tight against his pelvis to frame his cock between thumb and forefinger.

"I already said  _ please _ , D, just--"

An abrupt silence chokes the room when Dick grips Tim, slides his hand in a slow, rough stroke.

"There you go," Dick whispers. "You're good, you're good."

Speech temporarily beyond him, Tim whines, loud and ragged. The leg Dick doesn't have trapped is pushing against the back of the couch, giving him leverage to press back into Dick's groin; he's satisfyingly present like this, hips against Dick's, cock warm in Dick's hand, hair tickling Dick's nose.

Dick tightens his grip and moves closer to Tim's ear. "That's it, babe," he says hoarsely. He drinks in the sight of his hand on Tim's cock, of the precome gathering at the head, of the desperate twitches of muscle where Tim's shirt is riding up over his stomach. "You're gorgeous, laid out for me like this."

He adjusts the leg he has hooked around Tim's, jostles it to remind Tim of the leverage he has over him. Tim's dick jerks in his grasp.

"Dick," Tim pleads, and Dick traces around Tim's earlobe with his tongue, gentle, gentle. Tim's voice breaks on a sob, and he's planting his free foot more firmly in the sofa to arch up, shoulders now pushing into Dick as he thrusts up, graceless. His hand scrabbles back to try to grab at Dick, brushes against his knee.

Dick slows the pace of his hand to a maddening drag. "Shh," he says, then tweaks Tim's earlobe with sharp teeth. "I'm gonna take care of this for you--" and Tim's whining again, catching, "--you just gotta let me."

He's not sure at first if Tim hears him, but a moment later he sees a flash of Tim's white teeth, stark against the flush of his skin. He bares them, the visible signature of a struggle to get control of his tensing body.

"Good." Dick keeps even time with his hand. It's steady and relentless.

Tim relaxes slowly down against him.

"How does that feel?" His hand keeps working that same easy rhythm.

Tim's looking down now, watching as Dick's fingers strip him. "It--yeah." His breath is hitching less and less.

The moments stretch out in taffy-sweet threads, everything all at once again. Tim's relaxing into Dick's arms, finally, and lazily wiping come off his stomach, and curling his hips up and coming in Dick's hand, and mouthing at the corner of Dick's jaw, where the skin turns tender.

"Yeah," Tim repeats, and his mouth hangs open when the word's gone.

"Not going anywhere," Dick says. "Just let it go."

Tim's eyes are closed now.

He holds his rhythm steady. "You're okay," Dick hopes.


End file.
